Of Merit and Poultry
by Saloma-Kiwi
Summary: SKYRIM. Cicero and the Listener have an unfortunate misadventure beginning with chickens and ending with a trowel. Humorous Oneshot, but not crack. (PROMPT: "I didn't mean to kill your chicken.")


It was a peaceful little homestead. Remote. Well off from the main path in the lee of that mountain most called the Throat of the World. There was a fenced-in garden more than large enough to feed the household, a cow, a coop of chickens. The little estate would escape the notice of most thieves, but the strange, motley pair approaching from the road has no interest in theft, but has come to perform a _service_. For now, however, it's the handsome hens which have their attention.

"Oh, not even the Listener can hit a target that small at this distance."

Valasca halted their progress immediately, in the dead center of the dirt path. The chickens in question were little more than white tufts at nearly one-hundred paces. "Cicero, you've _seen_ me make better shots."

The fool giggled. "Yes, but _those_ were guided by the will of Sithis on missions of sacred importance to the Brotherhood."

"You and I both know Sithis is not some benevolent hand that helps anyone out of a bind—not even the Night Mother. Everything I do is—"

"But the Night Mother's fate was the will of Sithis, so you can't prove that."

Valasca folded her arms over the blood-red mark on her leathers. "I work on my own merit without the blessings of any god. If anything, they all seem to make my life _harder_, not—"

"Cicero thinks the Listener is just chicken."

She snatched the ebony bow from her back. "I'll wipe that smug grin off your face." Valasca knew she wouldn't; she was well aware that silly expression was frustratingly _permanent_, but it was the principle of the thing. "What do you have to bet? It's not as though you can shoot worth anything."

The fool halted in the midst of a celebratory jig, one foot still balanced at waist-level. "Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm… Ah! _If_ the Listener can pierce the fowl, Cicero will fulfill the contract with a trowel."

"A trowel, Cicero? Bad rhymes won't do you any service."

His pout was anything but convincing. "Cicero could do it."

Valasca rolled her eyes. "Fine. I don't care how you do it, but when I hit this chicken, you get to take care of the work while I find something to drink."

The Listener knocked a thin arrow to her bow, one she'd fletched herself for a long-distance assassination (most certainly _not_ for hunting chickens), and attempted to ignore the nerve-grating giggle as she lined up her shot. The arrow left with barely a whistle.

Of course, it struck the unfortunate beast.

"Oh, _good shot_, Listener!" The motley fool turned a somersault in the direction of the homestead. "It seems Cicero will have to make good on his end of the bargain!"

A frown tugged at the corner of Valasca's lips as she replaced her bow. "Somehow, I think you just wanted the contract."

"And the clever Listener would be correct!"

"Damn fool." But Cicero just cackled and started on one of his lyrics, and Valasca had half a mind to knock the cap off his head. "Just have it done."

"As you say!"

He wasted no time in creeping toward the homestead, and the Listener followed, keeping close to the lengthening shadows. Stones and tall grasses provided plenty of cover, not that the Listener particularly needed it, having grown quite adept at—

"Ay, you there!"

Valasca froze, but did not panic. Cicero was well out of the way. If she stayed still, the peasant was likely to think it was a trick of the light. There was no way—

"You need to pay for that chicken."

Damn. No matter. She rose, and adopted a casual stance, making quite sure the blood-red handprint on her chest was visible. Her face was shrouded; as long as Cicero got the job done, the sighting would not be problem. Now… blind terror from the peasant upon realization that he was shouting at a member of the Dark Brotherhood in three, two—

"Don't you have better things to do besides shoot my chickens?"

"What?"

"Oo—very eloquent, Listener."

And Cicero had not gone ahead. Brilliant.

"I know what the sign means. It means you have much better things to do than kill my chickens." The peasant approached her directly, but stayed a little more than arm's length from both assassins—close enough for Valasca to see the pendant hanging from a chain on his neck.

"Nocturnal." It made sense now.

"Can't hide in the shadows from one with favor. Now pay up fair, and I'll be on my way." There was a sword at his waist; not a complete idiot, then.

"I didn't mean to kill your chicken. I had been tracking a fox up the hill and my aim was unfortunately off."

"Nothing but lies/in my bonny lass' eyes,/but she cannot fool me/when she's strung from a tree."

Valasca sent a cutting glare at the fool. "You'll have to forgive him; he's of a dull wit."

"Happy to play the fool is Cicero, but stoop to dullard, he'll not go! I sharpen wit as I sharpen knives."

"Don't you have a debt to pay?"

"You do." The peasant opened his hand.

"Indeed, indeed! Cicero shall depart."

Valasca clenched her teeth. Her hand hovered between her purse and her knife.

"Five septims. I'm sure it won't hurt your purse at all."

She tossed the coin to him.

"Thank you." The peasant pocketed the gold. "I'm sure you have business. Favor of Nocturnal to your endeavor." He turned to follow the path back to the homestead, upon which Cicero had already disappeared.

The pressure of her knife sinking between ribs was quite pleasurable, and the snick as flesh tried in vain to stick to the blade was terribly satisfying. Valasca did not bother with the septims. She cleaned her knife on the peasant's tunic and tugged the pendant from his neck. She twirled the silver chain around one finger.

"My own merit," she told it.

"Careful, Listener, or people might think you're mad."

Valasca slipped the disc and chain into her purse. "Have you finished?"

A scream from the direction of the farmhouse.

"Yes," was the none-too-modest reply.

She arched an eyebrow at him. "With the trowel?"

Cicero rocked back and forth on his heels like a schoolboy. "The very one he was using."

"Disemboweled with the trowel?" Good gods she was spending too much time with him.

The fool's eyes glittered. "Ooooo! Delightful, but no. Just through the neck."

"We'll just leave that out of the report to Nazir, anyway. I doubt he'll be thrilled I let you do it."

"And the chicken?"

"_Definitely_ no chicken. If you breathe even a word of this to anyone, I'll be sure to test that disemboweling trick on you."

Cicero's grin was all the wider. "Not a word, Listener. Not a word."


End file.
